


fulfilling for other people

by missselene



Series: fulfilling for other people [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bath Sex, M/M, Oblivious John, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Unrequited Love, Virgin Sherlock, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missselene/pseuds/missselene
Summary: When Sherlock decides to act on John’s advice regarding romantic entanglements, the results are far from what John expected.





	

John is on his way home from the surgery and decides to stop by Baker Street. It’s to pick up the stuffed bee Rosie forgot at Mrs Hudson’s the last time she was there, mainly, but it’s also been a few days since he’s last seen Sherlock, and the Stamfords have taken Rosie with them to the zoo, so…

As he approaches number 221 he sees the door open, and man walks out. He’s of an indeterminable age between 30 and 45, slightly tan, with dirty blond hair. John doesn’t think he’s ever seen him before – a client, then. John smiles to himself. He hopes whatever case he brought was worth Sherlock’s time – he could do with a bit of excitement.

_*_

_“I’m not really sure what to do,” Sherlock admits, desperately trying to keep nervousness out of his voice._

_“That’s okay.” Soft voice, gentle. Slightly husky, designed to be arousing. “I’m here to take care of you. Your only job is to tell me what you want.”_

_What does he want? Oh, plenty of things, some of them quite badly, none of which are currently on offer. And out of what is on offer…_

_“If you don’t know, that’s okay too. Many people don’t. Then the only thing you need to do is tell me if I do something you don’t like, so that I can stop.”_

_*_

He stays with Mrs Hudson for a quarter of an hour, chatting a bit about Rosie and Mrs Hudson’s car troubles, and then excuses himself to go visit Sherlock.

“You do that,” Mrs Hudson says and pats his arm. “He’s really not been himself lately.”

That worries John. Sherlock seemed fine the last time John saw him, so he doesn’t think it’s drugs again, but he still climbs the stairs with a sense of trepidation.

Sherlock doesn’t answer when John calls his name at the door, so he enters and finds him sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a cup of tea.

“John,” Sherlock blinks as if he isn’t quite sure John’s there, and his voice is utterly dull. John’s worry increases exponentially. He steps closer.

“Are you all right?” he asks, looking Sherlock over. He’s in his blue dressing gown and his hair is slightly damp, fluffing and frizzing as it dries. There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with him.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, but evidently isn’t even trying to sound convincing. He keeps looking at his tea.

“Did you see a client like that?” It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock didn’t think getting dressed was necessary, but still. Sherlock’s level of personal grooming is often indicative of his state of mind. He’s clearly just had shower, but he doesn’t seem to have bothered to put on anything more than the dressing gown.

“Client? What client?” Sherlock asks and lifts his head, and his voice finally finds some inflection, a level of interest.

“A man, blond, in a blue coat? I saw him leaving.”

“Oh,” Sherlock visibly deflates and looks back at his tea. “He wasn’t the client.”

“Well, who was, then?”

“Me.”

*

_“We could start here, if you want, drink some wine perhaps, to help you relax. Or would you rather move to the bedroom straightaway?”_

_Neither of those options sounds exactly tempting, but better to get it over with._

_“The bedroom, please,” Sherlock says._

_*_

“You?” John says, not understanding, and then it dawns on him. The only explication: the man must have been a therapist. Had Sherlock been feeling so bad he decided he needed a new therapist and John didn’t notice? Oh god.

He sits down kitty-corner from Sherlock. “You aren’t seeing Ella anymore?”

“Ella? Oh, no. I am. He wasn’t a therapist.”

“He wasn’t?” Now John doesn’t understand at all, and Sherlock just keeps looking down, utterly dejected. It’s completely wrong. Sherlock doesn’t behave like this, not even when he’s hurt. He lashes out in self-defence, or he shuts everyone out. He doesn’t do _this_ , sit quietly and let John prod him for answers. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I did what you said I should.” His next words sound like they should be venomous, but instead they are completely empty of emotion. “I had sex, so now I hope I finally qualify as a _complete_ human being.”

*

_Kissing._

_Sherlock wasn’t sure if kissing would be part of the deal, but it turns out it is. It’s all right, he supposes. Gentle, not insisting at all (so as not to overwhelm the blushing virgin, no doubt). Mild pressure of lips, soft licks. Odd slick sensation, but not too bad._

_All of Sherlock’s body is rigid as a rod, except for the part which, he supposes, should be getting there by now and decidedly isn’t._

_“Is this okay?” A hand underneath his untucked shirt._

_He nods, and does not flinch at the touch._

_“Just try to relax. You’re doing fine.”_

_*_

John’s head spins. Sex? Did – did Sherlock have sex? With that man? Was that man Sherlock’s _boyfriend_? A sharp feeling rises in his chest, and he clenches his fists against it before he remembers what Sherlock said before.

Client.

But that means – that must mean the man was…

“Yes,” Sherlock says before John has even managed to complete the thought. “Please spare me your moralistic drivel.”

John feels like he’s been thrust into some sort of parallel universe. He has no idea what to say, what to feel. He tries to come up with something to say, anything at all. His eyes fall on Sherlock’s phone lying on the kitchen counter.

“I thought you and Irene…” he mumbles, and that, finally, gets him a proper reaction. Sherlock’s head shoots up, and the look he gives John shocks him with the steel in it.

“John, everyone who knows me with the _sole_ exception of you has managed to notice that I. Am. Gay. I have no idea why you’re so fixated on Irene Adler but I can give you her number if you think that might help.”

John stares at him. Sherlock’s shoulders sag and his gaze drops back down. John has never felt more wrong-footed in his life. He’s wondered, of course, but Adler was the only person he’d ever seen Sherlock show any interest in. If not her, then who?

“I’m sorry,” he offers. “I thought you might be but then she was there and you seemed… Sorry.”

Sherlock sniffs a little. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”

The way he says his makes it sound like nothing matters, and John feels awful, awful that Sherlock is so _sad_ for some reason John has yet to discover, awful that he made assumptions about Sherlock’s private life in a way that clearly hurt him, awful that his best friend preferred to pay a stranger for sex rather than – rather than…

“I did contact her, though,” Sherlock says unexpectedly. “The Woman. For recommendations.”

“Oh,” John says almost conversationally, like they’re talking about a topic that’s totally normal for them and everything’s fine. “So he was… like her, then?” he asks, and his gaze lingers on Sherlock’s wrists, his neck, checking for bruises.

“Oh no. Rather the opposite. But she’s always been good at telling what people like, seemed safer to ask her rather than make my own judgement. It’s not really my area.”

“The opposite?”

“Not submissive,” Sherlock clarifies, but not before John’s mind has had time to flash an image of Sherlock slapping a faceless man’s back with a riding crop. “Darian specialises in… gentleness.”

*

_“This isn’t working,” Sherlock says grimly. He’s spread out on the bed, naked from the waist up, and he’s been extensively kissed, stroked, licked, caressed, but none of it seems to be doing anything for him and his penis remains steadfastly flaccid. “You should just go.” He’s embarrassed and miserable, and would be better left alone._

_“I can do that, if you prefer. But if you want, we can try something else. I think you’re pushing yourself too hard and, if I may say so, you’re not thinking about this right. You see, the point isn’t achieving a specific outcome--”_

_“Of course it is.” Isn’t that what sex is about?_

_“No. The point is that you enjoy yourself, and I’m here to help you with that. If what we’ve been doing isn’t working, there’s lots of other things we can try, and they don’t necessarily have to be sexual.” He cups Sherlock’s cheek, tenderly, like a lover. “Think, what would give you pleasure? I can give you a massage, I’m actually quite good at those, or a bath, we can cuddle or I could even just read to you. It’s up to you. Whatever makes you feel good and cared for.”_

_The words make Sherlock flinch. Cared for. That’s what he wants, in the end, isn’t it? More than to get rid of his virginity, which has never actually bothered him in any way – and if he can’t achieve that, and he clearly can’t, then maybe he could have that at least. To feel cared for. Appreciated. Loved. Just for a little while. Even if it’s just a sham._

_“A bath, then,” he says and does not dwell on why he chose this particular option. “You could wash my hair?”_

_Darian smiles._

_“It would be my pleasure.”_

_*_

John thinks he can actually feel his heart breaking. Paying for sex is one thing, but paying for _gentleness_? Did Sherlock think no one would be gentle with him simply for the privilege of being with him? And then, a much more horrifying thought suggests itself, and John knows he’s right even before he asks, but he has to ask, he has to.

“Was it… was it your first time?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says plainly, as if the conversation didn’t concern him, as if didn’t make John feel like he was going to burst with a myriad of unnamed feelings. He turns his tea cup in his hands, watching the remaining liquid. “Don’t be shocked. I’m hardly the first to choose this way.”

*

_“There you go. Does that feel nice?”_

_Sherlock only hums in response, knowing he isn’t required to do anything more. It does feel nice. He’s always had a sensitive scalp and liked feeling fingers in his hair (even though the only one who ever did it was his barber), and Darian’s fingers move with exactly the right pressure, at exactly the right speed. Sherlock’s in the bath, with just enough foam floating on the surface to preserve this modesty (as ridiculous as that is, in context), and Darian’s kneeling on a pillow on the side of the tub. It feels much better, much more familiar and relaxing than being pawed all over, unsuccessfully trying to get it up._

_“Your hair’s quite lovely. So soft. I could do this all day.”_

_Sherlock supposes Darian is really quite good at what he does. He speaks to Sherlock softly, barely above a whisper (low enough, were Sherlock to be so foolish as to imagine it, to pass for someone else’s), and doesn’t say anything too inane or annoying. Most of what he says are compliments, really, positive observations about Sherlock’s looks, his fashion sense, his choice of hair products, his flat, his most recent case that made the papers. And perhaps it is stupid, but it feels good. Sherlock lets himself relax in the bath, lulled by the warmth of the water, the words, the touches._

_*_

“Can I ask why?” John says. It’s not even the most pressing matter on his mind, but there are so many questions swirling around in his head and he has to choose one. “I mean, why didn’t you just… I’m sure you could have your pick of all the gay men in London.”

Sherlock gives a short, bitter laugh at that, and then remains quiet for long seconds, perhaps a minute. John thinks that it may be the only reply he’s going to get, and that would make sense, since for Sherlock to talk to him about something like that is actually worryingly out of character, but then Sherlock speaks.

“Two reasons,” he says, and his voice carries a hint of the tone he uses when explaining a deduction, but only a hint. Mostly he sounds like he’s reading a phone book. “First, I thought there was a chance that you were right, and I would… benefit from a romantic entanglement. I thought I could give it a try, but I didn’t feel confident to… initiate anything with no practical experience whatsoever. I don’t suppose many people are keen on thirty-eight-year-old virgins. I figured it’d be good to gather some data first, to learn the basics in a low-stakes context. No need to impress, no risk of disappointing anyone.”

There are many things John would like to say to that. To ask if it worked. If Sherlock got the data he wanted. To tell him that someone who loved him would not care how much experience he had. That they’d be happy to be as gentle and patient with him as he needed them to be. That first times are rarely perfect but that anyone who found Sherlock disappointing would be a fool and not worthy of his time. That Sherlock, of all people, deserved his first time to be with someone who cared about him, someone he trusted, not a stranger for hire.

But he doesn’t say any of it, because he can tell that if he interrupted now, Sherlock would never continue.

“Second, it was an experiment.”

*

_“Lean forward for me.”_

_Sherlock does, and Darian uses the shower head to rinse his hair clean of conditioner._

_“Now, what about the rest of you, hm?” Darian asks, running his hand over Sherlock’s shoulders. “Will you let me?” he asks, as if he really wants to do it, as if it really matters to him._

_The water is still warm, and Sherlock feels a little languid, a little sleepy. He nods._

_“Perfect.” Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but it’s obvious from Darian’s voice that he’s smiling. His role fits him like second skin, and Sherlock lets himself be taken in._

_Darian gets a flannel and washes Sherlock gently, touching him with more care than Sherlock remembers ever experiencing. His neck, shoulders, arms, hands. A kiss to his knuckles._

_A breath against his ear, “Look how lovely you are.”_

_Slow circular motions over his chest, lingering on his nipples longer than strictly necessary for bathing purposes. Sherlock sighs._

_“That’s it, just let yourself enjoy it.”_

_Rubbing the skin of his belly, to the sides and then down, down, slowly advancing and retreating, giving him time to say stop, and when Sherlock doesn’t, down further, until the flannel brushes his unexpectedly half-hard cock, alerting Sherlock to the low-level arousal that’s crept up on him, unnoticed._

_“Ooh, what do we have here?” says Darian, his tone flirtatious, but when he passes the flannel over Sherlock’s penis it’s cursory and matter-of-fact. Non-threatening. “It’s all right, you’re alright.”_

_He moves his hand to Sherlock’s hip stroking his sides soothingly, and it’s only when Sherlock relaxes again that he realises he had gone tense._

_“There you go, everything’s fine.”_

_Darian’s hand moves slowly, washing down Sherlock’s left outer thigh and moving up on the inside, slowly, carefully, Sherlock’s breath rising in anticipation. This time he touches Sherlock with more purpose, a gentle squeeze, a little rub as Sherlock exhales shakily through his nose._

_Darian’s hand meanders over Sherlock’s legs and down to his feet, returning several times to his groin, to stroke his cock, to cup his testicles, to press, gently, behind them, until Sherlock is actually, properly hard, his breaths coming through his nose loud and sharp._

_And then Damian lets go of the flannel and touches Sherlock with his bare hand. He starts at his ankle and strokes up slowly though the coarse hair on Sherlock’s leg, until, oh, oh, his strong, naked fingers wrap around Sherlock’s now prominent erection._

_A soft moan escapes Sherlock’s lips and his body jerks, water sloshing._

_“Shhh, it’s okay, just let go. You’re doing so well.” He puts his other hand back in Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp like he did before. Grounding, calming. Safe._

_Sherlock lets his knees fall open as wide as the bathtub lets him._

_*_

“I needed to see how I would react to that level of intimacy, to be sure if I could… do that, be like that, in an acceptable way, with someone who was… personally invested.” He grimaces. “I’m afraid the results were conclusive. A resounding no.”

John frowns, confused. What does that even mean? The first idea that occurs to him is that maybe Sherlock was unable to perform, but that doesn’t make sense, as Sherlock has clearly indicated sex had taken place. Bad sex, then? Bad enough to make Sherlock never want to try again?

“Did he hurt you?” he asks carefully. The low simmer of anger that bubbles up at the thought is almost welcome, clear and simple among the confusion of the rest of his emotions.

“What?” Sherlock glances at him in surprise briefly before looking back down. “Of course not. Didn’t you hear when I said he was gentle?”

“Accidents happen,” John says simply, and god, a part of him actually wishes Sherlock had said yes, so that he could go and find that bastard and punch him within an inch of his life. “Was it… not good, then?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It was fine.”

“Then… why? Sherlock, I get that you probably think it’s all romantic rubbish, but it’s not. Trust me, it’s different when it’s someone you care about. Who cares about you.”

“I am not disputing that,” Sherlock says very calmly. “If fact, it’s precisely the reason. I couldn’t possibly ask this of someone who wasn’t getting paid for it.”

*

_Capable fingers encircle Sherlock firmly, moving up and down his length in languid strokes. The world has narrowed down to lukewarm water and foam, the throbbing need between his legs, with nothing but empty void beyond the edges of the tub he clutches like a vice._

_Up and down, squeeze and pull, slowly and then_ oh oh oh _a little faster, a little firmer._

 _A hand caressing his hair, his neck, moving down to rub at his nipple, and Sherlock's mouth falls open when he cannot get enough air through his nose. The heat in him rises, back arching, hips stuttering,_ yes yes there more—

_“That’s it, you’re almost there, you’re so good, you’re almost there.”_

_Another increase in speed, a thumb flicking across the tip,_ almost almost almost, _and then a brief, tortuous loss of sensation as hands rearrange themselves before one of them is mercifully back on him, tugging at his cock as Sherlock’s hips thrust forward, and the other gently fondles his sac, one finger pressing against his perineum._

_“Oh!” His moan is nearly lost among the sounds of water lapping wildly at the sides of the tub and sloshing over the rim, his panting breaths, the squeak of wet skin against enamel as his hips jerk helplessly, his hands lose purchase._

_“Yes, come on, there you are, come for me now, just let go.”_

_He thrusts forward into the warm fist around him, faster harder faster ---_

_*_

“What? Sherlock, that makes no sense. I don’t know what you think it is that no one would do for you for free but I can guarantee you it’s not true. Someone who loved you would care about what you like, they’d _want_ to give it to you. And if you’ve decided that a romantic relationship is something you might be interested in then you _deserve_ to—”

“What _I_ do or don’t deserve is irrelevant. The point is that no one,” something hitches in his breath and his voice goes even quieter than before, “ _no one_ deserves to waste their time and affection on someone who continues, despite all reason, to be pathetically hung up on his straight best friend who’d sooner kick him than kiss him.”

*

_His occipital bone hits the edge of the bath when his head falls back as his orgasm rises up in him and spills, hot and bright, wave after wave after wave, his toes curling, hands flailing, searching for a beloved hand to grip, a cherished body to pull close, searching for---_

_“_ John…! _”_

_*_

“So you see the problem, John,” Sherlock continues quietly. His head drops even lower, his spine bends, shoulders close in. Curling in on himself. “I’m in love with you, and at this point it’s unlikely I’ll ever stop. I though being with someone else might be… good enough, better than nothing. That maybe it would help me to… move on. But I realised today that I could never do that. It wouldn’t be fair to ask someone to care for me when I could never fully reciprocate.”

The silence when Sherlock stops talking is deafening, ringing in John’s ears with the intensity of an alarm. John feels simultaneously utterly blindsided by Sherlock’s declaration, and at the same time not nearly as shocked as he should be – as if a part of him had always known. He knows it’s his turn now to speak, to react, to acknowledge Sherlock words. He has no idea how.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says after a moment, his voice small but remarkably steady, given the circumstances. “If you hadn’t come here today I’d never have told you. I’m sorry. If you – if you still want to be friends after this, I promise you’ll never hear another word on this from me ever again.”

John reaches for him, not sure what he’s about to do, but Sherlock visibly flinches, so John lets his hand fall.

“I think it would be best if you left now,” Sherlock says, his eyes tightly shut as though he couldn’t bear to catch even the merest glimpse of John.

“Sherlock.”

“Please, John. Just go. Please.”

John hesitates. It feels wrong to leave Sherlock like this, but he obviously wants to be alone. And in the end, what could John do to help?

“Okay then.”

*

_Darian wraps him up in a towel, helps him out of the bath. He stays quiet, sensing it’s what’s needed, and offers his support instead by towelling him dry as Sherlock’s legs barely manage to hold him up._

_Balance of probability says it’s far from the first time someone has called out another man’s name as Darian was pleasuring them. To him, it’s just the ordinary course of business._

_Sherlock finds the requisite amount of bills in his wallet and he feels all strength and energy drain out of him as he hands them over. This has been a bad idea. The only thing he’s achieved is opening wounds he’d been painstakingly keeping closed, and the few moments of purchased tenderness were hardly worth it, not when there could be no question of building upon it, with anyone, ever._

_He should have known. He did know, really. He’s always known. Romance is for other people, and he should never have hoped otherwise._

*

John stops at the door, hesitating. He turns and looks back at Sherlock, still sitting motionless at the kitchen table.

“I’m coming back, you know,” he says. “Don’t think I’m not.”

 _Is that really the best you can do?_ says a voice in his head that may or may not sound a little bit like Mary. _For your best friend, in a situation like this? When he’s clearly hurting so much? How bad must he be feeling to have told you all this, let his guard down so much?_

Sherlock nods minutely in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look up, and John desperately tries to come up with something else to say, something more to do, and fails.

He’ll come back.

*


End file.
